Acknowledgment
by Violetta Jones
Summary: Drabble/ficlet collection about Zoro and Sanji's relationship. Blanket M rating. Ninth: In which Perona wishes dumb swordsmen always remembered to lock their bedroom's door when they polish their swords – and at least one swordsman wishes he did, too.
1. Get that message home

_Author's notes :  
><em>

_Ok, so, Aevium and I spent some time fooling around with one of Seventh Sanctum's wonderful generators yesterday. I didn't really plan on posting this, but since she did post her own, I think it's only fair that I do as well._

_This is a drabble, obviously, and it's not really good (especially not compared to Aevium's little masterpiece, even with such a vague, silly prompt). It was more of a spur of the moment thing, and I didn't edit it as I'm used to with my regular fics. Also, I'm posting it as the first in a – hopefully long – series of drabbles, which will most likely revolve around Zoro and Sanji, though this might change. I sure hope we'll both have time to write more of these in the future._

_Prompts, if any, will be posted at the end of each entry.  
><em>

_Enjoy~!  
><em>

ooo

He couldn't believe it. It wasn't possible. It shouldn't be.

And yet, he was holding the evidence between his wavering hands.

Truthfully, he had never reflected on it, but if someone had asked him before today, he'd have replied that he didn't think the swordsman could possibly write. Especially not _poetry_. And especially not poetry meant for him.

He had found it as he was sliding into bed for a well-deserved afternoon nap. Someone had slipped a small piece of paper under his pillow, which he found as he settled for his nap, sliding an arm under the soft cotton material, as usual.

He was curious at first, and he found himself delighted when he realized it was a piece of Nami's map parchment. What was so important and secretive that she had to slip him a note? But he soon became quite disillusioned when he unfolded it and didn't recognize her writing. If not the beautiful navigator, who could have written it? Robin, maybe? Certainly not. She wouldn't have such a messy writing. The paper was full of crossed out words, as if the author couldn't make their mind on what to write, and he could spot a few misspelled words here and there.

His eyes wandered through the text, and really, it was the most idiotic, yet strangely endearing piece of poetry he ever read. Something about his eyes, blue like the summer sky, and the like. It was a little awkward, but it was sweet.

He turned the paper, looked at the back, and his blood froze in his veins. He hadn't noticed earlier, but someone had scribbled a few words on the other side.

"_To the shit-cook._"

He couldn't believe it. Zoro, of all people, had given him _poetry_? And that dumbass thought that line wouldn't give him away? Sanji shook his head incredulously.

Before long, he was fumbling around his locker to find a pen and ink. He folded the paper, and hastily wrote a response on the blank side. Then, he went to that idiot's bunk, and slipped the note under his pillow.

There. Let that moronic, adorable asshole have a taste of his own medicine.

He got back into his own bed, and closed his eyes, sighing tiredly. He needed that nap, and he needed it now.

ooo

"_To the marimo :_

_That green on your head / Makes me think of rotten eggs / A waste of good food._

_By the shit-cook._

_Try harder."_

ooo

**"During the story, a letter is delivered."**


	2. Lost scent

_Author's note :  
><em>

_I actually had trouble to find a good, suitable idea for this prompt, because I had so many that I couldn't choose... And it turned out way longer than I first intended. But I guess it's still a drabble, as long as it doesn't go over 1k words, right? Ah, I fail so hard. e_e_

_Enjoy~!_

ooo

"Why are you mad?"

Luffy was looking at Zoro, currently in his second series of six thousand lifts, with curiosity in his eyes.

"I'm not mad." The swordsman replied grumpily, before grunting irritatedly when his captain perched himself on his weights. "Get down."

"See?" Luffy said after climbing down. "You're mad."

"I'm not." Zoro sighed, laying his weights on the floor, knowing Luffy wouldn't leave him alone until he gave him his full attention. "It's just... Bah, whatever. I lost my bandana." He finally admitted grumpily.

He'd been searching for it the whole morning. He'd searched the depths of his locker in the men's cabin, as well as the growing pile of dirty clothes on the floor. He dug into the clean laundry basket, and even turned his bunk upside down, just in case the thing had gotten stuck in between the sheets. To no avail. The damn thing was still nowhere to be found.

The black bandana didn't have a sentimental value to him, not really. He could always get a new one next time they'd stop for restocking. But he had to admit he liked the color, actually closer to a very dark green that real, outright black. Also, since it would end up rubbing repeatedly against his forehead, drenched with sweat during fights, he'd rather use an old, worn one, rendered soft by repeated use, than a new, scratchy one.

"Oh." Luffy replied in a casual tone, after Zoro finally admitted the source of his irritation. "It's with Sanji."

"Huh?" Zoro replied, frowning, and thinking he didn't hear that right.

"Yeah. He's wearing it right now. He's in the galley, if you want it back."

Zoro felt aggravation rise in his blood. Obviously, he wanted it back. Right fucking now. And why would the shit-cook have his bandana, anyway? He stood up and grabbed his swords, before stomping towards the galley, fully intending to retrieve his possession. That, as well as teaching that asshole not to fool around with people's things.

When he opened the door, the room was unusually filled with steam. He could already feel small beads of moist forming on his already sweat-dampened skin. There was a bamboo steamer in a large wok, on the stove, and the cook was nowhere to be seen.

"Oi, shit-cook!"

"Hmm?"

The culprit was now raising from behind the counter, a second bamboo steamer, filled with dumplings, in his hand. He was wearing Zoro's bandana around his head, much to the swordsman's aggravation. He stomped towards the cook and teared the cloth from his head in a rather brutal motion. Which didn't really seem to please the other.

"What the fuck's wrong with you, shithead?" The cook shouted, clearly annoyed at Zoro's antics.

"Just taking what's mine back, dart-brow."

"Don't get your panties in a bunch, marimo." He scoffed, grinding his teeth, before switching a the bamboo steamer in the wok for the other one. "I just borrowed it for convenience's sake. Didn't want to sweat all over lunch."

"Use your own stuff." Zoro scowled, his tone leaving no room for protests.

"I don't have old rags that I can use, you shitty swordsman."

"Whatever." And with that last retort, Zoro left the galley.

He stomped towards the stern. He felt like getting some fresh air, after the stifling atmosphere in the galley.

He breathed deeply, and looked at the bandana in his hand. It was damp – steam, and most likely the cook' sweat as well. Zoro wasn't the kind of guy who'd get grossed out by bodily smells, unless they were too strong, even for his own unrefined tastes, but he reckoned that maybe, he should wash it. He raised the small piece of cloth and sniffed it suspiciously.

As he expected, the thing smelled like food – dumplings. Cigarette smoke. There was also a hint of vanilla – Sanji's shampoo, maybe – as well as the cook's perfume – jasmine and bergamot. And sweat, too, that slightly pungent smell that Zoro didn't find that unpleasant.

The overall result wasn't that bad, and was so precisely the cook's smell – food, smoke, perfume and Sanji himself – that Zoro could almost imagine he was there, if he closed his eyes.

Maybe the bandana didn't need to get washed, after all.

ooo

**"During the story, a character finds an item they considered lost."**


	3. Lost, but not stranded yet

_Author's notes_

_This drabble was written in the subway, and unlike the first two, I had no specific prompt. I just wanted to challenge myself at using first-person narration. Also, this one is exactly 300 words long. See? I can do it, after all._

_One Piece isn't mine, but maybe I could bake some cookies and trade them for temporary ownership. My cookies are delicious. Hmm...  
><em>

_Enjoy~!_

ooo

Sometimes, I lose you.

It's not like I do it on purpose. It just happens. I don't know how, or even if there's a meaning to these disappearances. All I know is that, one moment, you're walking by my side, and the next, you're gone.

It feels lonely. I know I'm not very demonstrative, and I usually feign boredom, or even irritation, when you're around. But I've always liked being with you. Having you by my side was always a source of comfort to me. And when you're not there, somehow, I feel lost.

I always search for you, of course. After a while, when I notice you're not here with me anymore, and you fail to come back after a couple minutes, that is. I'm never in a hurry, though, because I know that you'd never disappear forever.

Yet, sometimes, when finding you again takes too long, and though I'm not usually one to lack self-confidence, I can't help but start wondering : where are you? How come you didn't tell me you were leaving, even if only temporarily? Why didn't you stick with me? After everything that transpired until now, everything there's between us? Did I do something to spite you? To earn myself your contempt? Did I disappoint you in any fashion? Or, hell forbid, hurt you?

At these times, there's always some nagging fear, that you'll never come back. That you left for good.

It's the only thing that ever really scared me. I'm not that easily shaken.

And then, the ship comes into view. I see you smirk at me, I hear your voice as you're throwing some sarcastic comment in my direction. And I'm not alone anymore.

I guess I always manage to find you again, in the end. And it's all that matters.


	4. When it rain and rain and rain and rains

_I love everything about rain, from the sound it makes to the way rainy weather gives everything a muted, grayish color. As far as I'm concerned, there's nothing to hate about rain, not even the fact it makes my hair frizzy as hell. And yet, it always makes me feel nostalgic, which is exactly what prompted this drabble-thing._

_I'm not using any name in this fic, but "I" and "you" 's actual identity should be obvious here. Many thanks to my muse, who'll probably never get to read this. Whatever.  
><em>

_As usual, I don't own anything, but I'm pretty generous, I guess. I always want to give, give, give more, and then some._

_Enjoy~!_

ooo

I used to love rain.

I remember it rained, that day, when we met for the first time. We were both soaked, and took refuge under the canopy of a bakery, round the corner of Notre-Dame des Champs and Vavin*. Your shoes sloshed as you ran, spluttering like a wet cat, to reach the nearest shelter, were I was already waiting. We were both drenched, and after glancing in my direction, you let out a small chuckle. Of course, at first, I felt offended. I didn't know, back then. I didn't know what you'd come to mean to me, later. Who would have known? We were two strangers, waiting under the rain, sharing a begrudging, unstated complicity as they waited for the downpour to pass.

I grumbled something about dripping wet idiots, and you chuckled again. We both fell silent then, and looked at the rain pouring from the dark gray sky.

Rainy days are when I remember you the best. On these days, I remember the tiny smile you flashed at me then, as we exchanged wary glances. You were the most stunning thing, soaked to the bones, your shirt clinging to your body as if were a second skin, leaving little room for imagination. There was a drop of water trickling down your nose, and the wetness made your hair stick in all directions. That's how I remember you : wet and alluring.

For that reason, it's also on rainy days that I miss you the most.

It's been years since you left, years since I last saw you. Of course, you left me. The nomadic nature of your dream didn't match mine's sedentary one. But I knew that, long before you decided it was time to go on your way. I knew you wouldn't stay, not even for me. Your dream was more important.

Sometimes, I wonder what we could have been if only we'd had a chance, if our dreams had been a little less crazy, a little more compatible. But since you're gone, we'll never get to know.

And on rainy days, when I remember that smile you offered, small and a tad shy, but infinitely precious, I sometimes believe that it could have happened. We could have been something. Maybe we were, actually, for some time. I don't know anymore. It's been such a long time.

Again, you left me on a rainy day, which is also why rain makes me feel lonely since then. Every time, the sound of a thousand drops of water hitting the pavement pushes forth a mix of painful, yet equally precious memories I'd rather not think about, on any other day. And then, even though it's at that time I tend to believe that you really felt something for me, that it was as painful for you as it was for me to part ways, it's also the time when I remember why you left with the most clarity. I know perfectly you'd never have chosen me over your dream. Never. Remember? "No getting attached", that was your motto. You knew you would leave at some point. You knew that from the start.

Sometimes, I wonder why you even took the time to stop there, and give me all these things that made me – and you, I like to believe – so happy, only to take them back, all the while knowing you'd have to, eventually. As of today, I still have no answer to that question. And I'll probably never have one, since you left me to wonder, with no hope that you'd ever come back.

I wish I had been strong enough to reach out to you and keep you from leaving like that. I know what you would say : regrets are useless, and a waste of time. It's not even like I have so much time that I can wallow in self pity, just because you left, just because you're not here with me anymore. My life is busy with trivial things that make the core of my own dream, and that need to be attended.

Still, every times it rains, I remember. I remember, and regrets catch up with me. There's nothing I can do about it.

And every time, it destroys a little bit more of what's left of me since you walked out of my life.

ooo

_*That bakery does exist. It's located in Paris, right at the corner of these streets, and is not too far from where I live._


	5. Spelling alabaster

_Author's notes_

_This still isn't the next chapter for "Unripe", nor is it the continuation of "the right way to itch a scratch" (well, yeah, it's getting more chapters at some point), and I apologize for that. But inspiration is a whimsical thing, and I actually had to get out of bed at 5am to type this. Which is a nice change, because it usually happens when I'm in the shower._

_So, this officially throws my drabble collection into M territory. It's pretty subtle for me, I guess, but there's stuff going on here. Also, it's a bit longer than my usual drabbles. It's technically more of a ficlet, but since it's so short, I didn't want to post it as a one-shot._

_I'd like to dedicate this chapter to my wonderful friend, Aevium, who once again agreed to correct my awkward wording. I don't know what I'd do without her, and she deserves all the happiness in the world._

_I don't own One Piece, but I know how to appreciate beautiful things. So does Zoro, I guess._

_Enjoy~!_

ooo

Zoro's never been one to talk much during sex. In fact, he's never been one to talk much, period. Moreover, his meager experience in that field is mostly made of brief encounters, short-timed agreements, contracted for both parties to obtain temporary relief. There's only so much you can tell someone who's scarcely more than a stranger, especially when you're too busy fucking them.

At first, he thought this strange, unexpected collusion with the cook was the same in that regard, aside from the fact they weren't exactly strangers to each other. And as a matter of fact, Zoro doesn't say much during their heated, secret meetings within the ship's depths either.

And yet, these encounters couldn't be any more different than everything he's known before then, when it comes to bodily entanglement.

It's not just about words, he realizes as he hovers above Sanji, who's starting to get seriously disheveled by now. His shirt is hanging open at his sides, revealing the skin of his abdominal muscles, rendered alabaster-white by the pale, diffuse moonlight seeping through small porthole in the room's wall. It's too dark to really see, but he looks at his face, into this one blue eye, as if to unveil unstated truths in the obscured night sky. He doesn't find any, but he reckons it's just another challenge. Sanji's always been a challenge to him, and Zoro's not one to turn it down. So, he closes his eyes and listens, as his mouth finds its way towards the cook's neck.

Because, unlike Zoro, Sanji talks a lot in bed. Insults and curses, more often than not, but also demanding injunctions, telling Zoro to stop being a lazy moron and if he could fucking stop taking his time, thank you very much, asshole. Almost every time, he'll open his mouth and utter such nonsense, while Zoro's busy trying to please him just the way he knows the cook likes, despite his protests and demands that Zoro better fucking hurry. And because he knows that Sanji will go on and on if he doesn't make him not-so-forcibly shut his trap – that foul mouth of his that never knows when to stop, because the cook's an idiot – Zoro has him use it for something else, something useful, that might even please the both of them. Which he achieves by kissing him and working his hands around him until Sanji's rendered speechless, unable to do more than pant harshly against his lips.

But Zoro doesn't dislike Sanji's bed talk, not really. He knows the cook speaks up to disguise some kind of vulnerability that somehow seems to surface whenever they fool around in the dark. Ultimately, he likes that, having Sanji in the crook of his hand, the strong man surrendering to Zoro's control over him, and more than anything else, knowing he's given in to it, even if he tries to hide it behind empty words. And to be completely honest, it's not like he can really complain, when he's no better, though in his case, it doesn't show.

The fact is that, as soon as they engage in such activities, Zoro's mind fills with thousands of words. Useless words that compliment his partner's strengths – and Zoro knows for a fact that Sanji's very strong, in more than one way. Words that gently underline his angular, masculine beauty, which he certainly finds enticing, despite the fact he's more used to feminine curves. Stupid words, which ultimately fail to describe his golden hair, his fair skin that looks so pale in the faint moonlight, or the intense blue of his eyes, vast and infinite like a sunny day's sky, clouded by want so obvious and raw that it makes Zoro's chest swell like the sea during perigean spring tides. Nonetheless, they keep rolling in his mouth, around his tongue, articulating the refined subtlety of his lover's bearing when he moves against him, seeking more of the delicious friction his body provides. They even wax silly poetry on the blissful frown slightly twisting Sanji's features as he obliges, eager to please – and protest deliriously at the not-so-subtle smirk on his face, when his hand sneaks into Zoro's pants and squeezes in retaliation.

But they never get past the tip of his tongue, for every time, Zoro is unable to utter any one of them.

It's not just about sex either, he thinks as he presses himself closer to the heat of Sanji's body, eliciting soft groans from the cook when he grazes against a particularly sensitive area. It's a lot more profound. He doesn't really understand, but he knows that, with Sanji, it's different. He doesn't know with much precision what's there, between them, but unlike what he's known before, with other people, it's something. Something good and precious, breathtaking and poignant. It's about emotions, and Zoro doesn't quite know what to do with these.

He knows that words are unnecessary in such situations, when their bodies entangle so tightly that he can't tell where the boundaries lie between them anymore. Actions often prove truer, more efficient to convey desire and – yeah, attachment.

That's what his heart tells him. But his head doesn't quite agree.

In the end, if he doesn't talk, it's not just because he thinks it's useless or silly. He actually feels an irresistible urge to say something, anything, as soon as his hands brush against that white skin, intertwine into the cook's blond, silky hair. But his words are much too unrefined, ultimately unworthy of being associated with Sanji. And besides, he finds that he really has no words to describe what he feels – but at the same time, his mind overflows with way, way too many of them. He fears he couldn't stop himself, if he ever managed to part his lips and start speaking. Maybe that's precisely because he wants to say them so badly that he can't even open his mouth, his control over himself crushed by this overwhelmingly intense wave of emotions, forced to surrender before even putting up a fight. And, while the words threaten to overflow, to breach the barrier of his lips – the urge so violent, despite the fact they're only words, mere sounds produced by the combined air against his vocal chords and motion of his tongue – so fervid that it makes him shudder helplessly under their tremendous weight, makes the whole world feel askew – they remain sadly unstated.

He rarely loses control, but when he does, it's generally in this state of expectant bliss, his arousal steadily growing but not at its peak, his body not quite there yet. When want turns into need and overturns his senses, making him feel like he's been stripped of everything but his skin, bared to the cook's piercing gaze. An intense gaze he knows can never be answered by mere words.

That's when these same words, however useless they might be, overwhelm him and prompt him to plunge forward and drown, instead of formulating his thoughts and telling Sanji that he's beautiful, that he loves him, loves him deeply and desperately and with everything he's ever had. It's beyond his reach, and he has trouble reconciling himself with these feelings for the time being. So, he relies on his touch to convey whatever it is that he feels.

He can only hope that Sanji understands.


	6. Turn me on

_Author's note :_

_This is from my Mini-fic Mondays over at my tumblr (you'll find the link on my profile). You can also find the non Zoro/Sanji drabbles/ficlets in my other collection, "We're all mad here"._

* * *

><p>"You turn me on", Zoro suddenly says one day.<p>

Sanji, who was washing a big pile of dishes that night after a rambunctious dinner, freezes for a second.

"Come again?" he asks casually, resuming the scrubbing of a reluctant cooking pot.

"I said : you turn me on," Zoro repeats, his tone flat.

This time, Sanji stops moving.

He turns around cautiously and glances at the marimo, sitting at the table, a beer in hand. A beer he leisurely takes to his lips, taking long gulps and emptying the bottle at once, before wiping his mouth in a nonchalant drag of his wrist. He's smirking.

"You heard me," he adds when Sanji remains silent for a while. "I'm not repeating myself a third time, shit-cook."

"Huh..." The cook finally says, finding himself dumbfounded for words.

Of course, he heard all right. But that's not the problem here.

Is this a new kind of taunt? A challenge of sorts? Or did something happen to Zoro that scrambled his brain, somehow? Made him dumber than usual?

"Has it finally happened? Did your last brain cell die?" He ponders out loud, his voice soft, almost dreamy to his own ears.

"Hah?" Zoro retorts, a slight frown on his brow.

He stares dumbly at Zoro.

Is Zoro even serious? Sanji wonders. It's hard to tell. It's not like the swordsman's perpetual brooding face is helping.

"So?" The swordsman asks after a while.

Sanji's mind is as blank as an empty dish. Why the fuck is this happening? How the fuck is it happening at all? Is this even real? The swordsman never showed any sexual or even romantic interest towards anyone, in the months they've known each other. As far as Sanji knows, the marimo truly has the same level of sexual assertiveness as his titular seaweed. _As far as I knew until a minute ago_, he silently corrects himself.

"So what?" He says.

Zoro's frown deepens. He's not smirking anymore.

"Don't you have anything to say?"

"Like what?"

"I don't –" Zoro starts, before apparently reconsidering. "You're not kicking my ass?"

"Why would I?"

"Why –" He starts again, before slamming his mouth shut so hard Sanji can hear his teeth clack.

The cook blinks. Why does Zoro seem so – so flustered, all of a sudden? Maybe he was really serious, after all.

This can't be happening.

He clears his throat. His voice sounds hoarse to his own ears.

"And what exactly about me is turning you on?"

Zoro averts his eyes, and doesn't answer. He really is flustered, Sanji realizes, and suddenly breathing doesn't feel so hard anymore.

"Come on, marimo. Sit down. I'll get you another beer."

He smiles at Zoro, who's frowning suspiciously at him.

"Take your time," he says, smiling at the reluctant swordsman. "We have all night."

* * *

><p><em>"ZoSan prompt: "you turn me on""<em>


	7. Unfair

_Author's note :_

_This is from my Mini-fic Mondays over at my tumblr (you'll find the link on my profile)._

* * *

><p>"It's unfair," Sanji says, trying to catch his breath.<p>

He's lying with his back on the ground, glaring at the small corner of sky he can catch around the marimo's fuzzy green head.

"What's unfair?" The aforementioned marimo says, an obnoxious smirk on his lips as he releases his hold on the cook's shoulders. "I'm stronger. Get over it."

"Shut up, asshole."

The swordsman laughs breathlessly, before lying next to him.

They stay silent for a moment, barely moving. After a while, when his breathing is back to normal, Sanji fumbles into his breast pocket for a smoke. He lights it up, and slowly exhales. The cigarette smoke hovers towards the endless blue sky.

"It's not just about muscles, shit-head. It's a combination of strength, skill, and intelligence." he says, his tone thoughtful. "I have just as much skill as you do, and I'm clever, which you are not."

"Jerk," Zoro says, elbowing Sanji in the ribs.

"You know I'm right, dumbass," the cook retorts. "You might have the advantage when it comes to raw strength, because you lift those monstrous weights all day long, but I make up for that with my brain." He sighs. "How come..."

He doesn't voice it, but he knows Zoro can hear the unstated question nevertheless.

The swordsman rolls on his side, using his elbow to look over the cook, who's still laying flat.

"I only win because I can rile you up like no one else," he says, a smug smile tugging at his lips.

"You don't rile me up, shitty swordsman" Sanji says, sounding offended.

"Yeah, right," Zoro says, not sounding convinced in the least. "You always get all flustered –"

He barely has time to dodge the kick to his head. He quickly gets up and unsheathes his swords.

"I don't get flustered!"

Sanji's face is red and contorted by rage.

_There we go again_, Zoro thinks.

He doesn't notice he's smiling.

* * *

><p><em>"zoroxsanji, fighting? doesn't have to be just physical fighting,but i love the banter between then."<em>


	8. The momentum of hate

_Author's note :_

_This is from my Mini-fic Mondays over at my tumblr (you'll find the link on my profile)._

* * *

><p>Sanji was burning.<p>

Every shadow of a breath he could feel on his skin. Every bite, every nip. Every single touch. Zoro's hands were so damn hot. His whole body felt like it was burning, and it made Sanji feel like his was burning too.

They didn't end up in that kind of situation often. Not that they lacked momentum, but occasions were rare. Sharing a ship with their seven crew-mates made it hard to find opportunities to be truly alone together. Which made every time they met in secrecy – usually late at night, in the depths of the ship, or occasionally in the crow's nest when one of them had watch – even more intense. And every single time, it felt like the whole ship had been set on fire.

It burned. It always had. Sanji hated it.

And Zoro always, always dragged foreplay out as much as he could, as if he actually knew Sanji hated that even more.

As usual, he'd overturn them both with a powerful motion of his hips. Zoro would smirk at him, not looking surprised in the least.

"Are you done fooling around, shitty-swordsman?" Sanji would say.

Zoro's reply would invariably be the same.

"Never."

It felt like Zoro knew exactly what to say to get Sanji to fuck him into the flimsy mattress they'd set into the hold, until none of them could move or think or even breathe anymore. It made Sanji burn hotter, and he hated it the most.

He hated it enough to blurt it out, when the motions of his hips became jittery, when the friction of Zoro's cock inside him became too much to handle.

"I –"

Once more.

"I fucking –"

Again.

"– fucking –"

Words weren't enough.

"– fucking –"

Words would never ever be enough.

"– fucking –"

_again_

"– fucking..."

_fucking_

"... hate..."

_too much_

"...I –"

He would hear Zoro's strained gasp, would feel him freeze, his whole body tensing as Sanji himself would finally find what he'd be looking for all along and paint the swordsman's abdomen in pearly strokes.

Just like that, in a matter seconds, it would be over.

He would let himself fall next to Zoro, their arms touching as they would both try to catch their breath. On nights where Sanji burned particularly hot, even though the fire in him would be mere embers by that point, he'd roll to his side and glance at Zoro's face. He'd soon bury his head in Zoro's shoulder to avoid his eyes in case the swordsman decided to look back.

"I hate you so much."

He wouldn't look at Zoro again, but he wouldn't need to, to hear the smirk in his voice.

"I know."

* * *

><p><em>"ZoroSanji. "I don't hate you""_


	9. The mortification of swords polishing

_Author's note :_

_This is from my Mini-fic Mondays over at my tumblr (you'll find the link on my profile)._

_Here's an accident, since the word count is a lot higher than 500. I couldn't help it though. I love these two to death. Also, this fic has some implied ZoSan, despite the focus isn't on this pairing, which is why I put it here and not in the general fic collection. Enjoy~!_

* * *

><p>Just like every single time Mihawk decided Zoro should train with him instead of the humandrills, it was over in a matter of minutes.<p>

Mihawk didn't even see fit to comment on his student's poor performance. He sheathed his sword – he never used Yoru during Zoro's training, not yet, but at least he hadn't used that tiny-ass knife he'd used when Zoro had challenged him the first time either, which would've been humiliating – and silently looked down at Zoro's prone form.

He was lying on the ground, his eyes bitterly closed after his defeat. He didn't want to look at his teacher's face. He didn't want to see the contempt there, or worse, pity. If he had to be perfectly honest, he'd reveal that he actually thought he was pitiful too. But of course, he'd never admit it.

Without a word, Mihawk let out what could be a sigh or a snort – Zoro couldn't really tell with his eyes closed. Maybe it was really both? Then, without a word, the man left, his footing light but confident, Mihawk left the scene of their one-sided fight.

Zoro relaxed ever-so-slightly, but didn't feel like moving yet. He hadn't noticed how tense he was when Mihawk was still around, but now that the man was gone, he realized how badly hurt his body felt. His muscles ached from the effort he'd put into fighting back. For all that had achieved, he couldn't tell if it had even really been worth the pain. He had a plethora of bruises about everywhere as well, from each of Mihawk's non-lethal but still incredibly painful blows. Mihawk was so sure that Zoro wouldn't be able to evade or parry his moves that he'd used the blunt side of his swords.

Something deep within Zoro clenched painfully, even more so than the various aches and hurts his body was suffering from. He wasn't one to get discouraged easily, or give up, but he'd rarely felt that useless in his whole life.

Maybe it was his survival instinct kicking in, sort of, since he was bad at dealing with complicated feelings. Zoro didn't know. But every time he felt like that – and it happened regularly since he'd come to that island – his mind took him elsewhere. Lately, it took him back to his crew, to the people who mattered the most to him and he'd had to leave behind against his will.

His mind took him to the cook.

Which was all sorts of fucked up, either way, because he wasn't much better at dealing with longing.

It was only a subtle change in the quality of the air surrounding him, but he noticed either way. He was being watched.

"Hey. Are you still alive?" That shrill voice could only belong to one person.

The ghost girl.

Zoro opened an unimpressed eye. She was hovering in the air above him, and her head was upside down from his vantage point. She was staring at his face with a frown, and her nose was bunched up in what might very well be disgust.

"Sorry to disappoint," Zoro replied gruffly, swatting her ghostly image away like he would a particularly persistent fly, though he knew it was useless.

He sat up and groaned, but quickly reigned himself in. his body hurt, but that kind of pain was nothing.

When he looked at her, she was crouching on the ground, her pointer finger fiddling with something in the dirt he couldn't see.

"So..." she said hesitantly. "You don't seem to have any parts that need to be sewn back on today."

A non-committal groan was his answer. He didn't want to deal with her right now.

"Then," she added after a while, "why do you look like you're about to cry?"

"Huh?"

Zoro didn't know what she meant. He was positive that his practiced poker face was still in place. After all those years, it was natural to him.

"I don't know. You look sad," the ghost girl said, before pointing at his eyebrows. "Still constipated though."

"Right." He was starting to feel annoyed.

She looked like she wanted to say more. She opened her mouth a couple times, but apparently decided against it each time. Until she finally averted her eyes, pouting.

"Do you..." She started.

"Do I _what_?" He finally snapped, though his aggravation would only be obvious to people who knew him very well.

Perona seemed to notice, though, and it surprised him a bit, but maybe it shouldn't have. They'd spent most of their time together in the past month or so. Obviously, she'd be able to notice such things by now.

"Do you miss him?" She finally muttered.

She was still pouting, but she looked almost embarrassed.

Zoro had no idea what she was talking about, so he stared at her and said nothing.

"Yo-you know." She was squirming a little now. "That blond cook. Sanji." She turned back towards him, her eyes softer. "Do you miss him?"

Her voice was softer too, but Zoro hardly noticed.

He hadn't told anyone about his relationship with the cook. Not _anyone_, not even his crew-mates. And certainly not the ghost girl. How the hell did she know? Before he could even think about it, he ended up voicing that concern.

"How... What the hell do you know, witch?" He answered, hoping his voice sounded even.

At these words, a slight flush dusted her pale cheeks.

"I-I –" she started, before clearing her voice and seemingly gathering her wits. "You talk in your sleep."

Which was funny, because Zoro knew for a fact – since Sanji had complained again and again that he snored, but never said anything about talking – that he didn't do that. Which could only mean...

"You spied on me." He growled, embarrassed and very much annoyed.

She was now bright pink all over, which would have looked funny if Zoro hadn't been so furious.

"You left the door open, asshole!" She cried, clearly just as embarrassed and angry as he was. "I'm a very cute and innocent girl! Do you think I want to walk in on dumb swordsmen mast... – masturb... – doing _that_! So uncute. I'm scarred for life!"

Ugh. He needed to be alone, and he needed it right now. And he thought that maybe, grossing her out would be the most efficient way to achieve that.

"Heh. You're such a prude. That's what we swordsmen do, you know." He smirked. "Polishing swords."

She fumed.

"I don't want to hear about your fourth sword!"

He thought she was going to cry, and was about to laugh at her, but she suddenly waved in his direction. A negative ghost appeared before her, and was promptly sent his way, as her ghostly image disappeared.

When the negative ghost was gone as well, Zoro fell back to the ground.

He was finally alone, and very, very sorry about everything.

* * *

><p><em>Prompt : ZoroPerona BrOTP. "Do you miss him?"_


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